Je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai
by SailorHikarinoMu
Summary: For the life of him, Alfred could not remember when exactly it had started, but someone had begun to sing those very lyrics whenever the nations got together. It usually came as a lingering whisper echoing down the hall at the end of meetings. Sometimes mournful, sometimes daring. It made Alfred wonder. Warning: M/M, Canada x America, fluff. Settings: Montreal, QC & Calgary, AB.
1. First Ending

For those who are wondering, ' _je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai_ ' is French for 'I want to have it, and I will have it', or in the case of this story 'I want to have him, and I will have him', since we're referring to America the personification.

You may want to listen to the song that inspired this story in the first place: " _L'Amérique_ " by Joe Dassin. Now, I haven't found any English translations of the lyrics, but I will happily send my own translation if you find yourself interested. Anywho, since this singer is still so well-loved here in Quebec, I thought to myself 'holy crap! I should totally write a story where Canada sings to America. And what better than this song!' And with this I then promptly realized how much I needed this. And so here is the result.

Disclaimer: As my brother would say: Nah, brah. Don't own.

A/N: America x Canada…. I just love these two so so much. Need I say more?

Fair warning, the day I began writing this story was December 28th, 201 **6**. As such, note that some of the (political) references in here are over a year old.

Enjoy!

 **Je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai (I Want to Have Him, and I Will Have Him)**

" _L'Amérique, l'Amérique, je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai…_ "

Alfred faltered in his step, his ice cream cone almost slipping from his hand as the familiar lyrics reached his ears.

He pointed a trembling finger towards the stereo system sitting on a shelf at the back of the old-fashioned ice cream parlor. "Who… who is that? The singer. Who is he?"

The young woman working behind the counter paused, expression confounded and index finger poised over the 'enter' button of the cash register, before lighting up in understanding. "Ah, you mean _Joe Dassin_! He was an American-born performer who sang most of his songs in French." She then closed her eyes, an appreciative smile gracing her lips. "Very popular around here, let me tell you. His songs are well loved to this day. I like to listen to his music during my shifts," she explained with another pleasant smile.

The American simply nodded in acknowledgement, face devoid of emotion though internally a mess of feelings. Briefly thanking the human, he made his way out of the shop and into the streets of Montreal, dazed and conflicted.

 _Again, those same, haunting words._

* * *

Truthfully speaking, he had heard the song before, at the time it first hit the charts back in the early 70's. He had loved it immediately; how could he not? The song was about him, dedicated to the very essence of his being, the beloved country he owed his existence to. It spoke well of him too, he knew; he had consulted France for an exact translation, of course – to which the latter had gladly obliged at the price of a few sneaky gropes to some firm, all-American derrière.

Despite it all, for the last decade or so, the song had begun to strike a cord deep within himself.

For the life of him, he could not remember when exactly it had started, but someone had begun to sing those very lyrics whenever the nations got together. It usually came as a lingering whisper echoing down the hall after the end of meetings. Sometimes, it would be crooned directly into his ear, but no matter how fast Alfred turned around, the person behind the voice would have disappeared, gone before the American could even react.

Most times, the individual's tone of voice was mournful, laced with longing. But sometimes… sometimes it was daring. Raspy and sensual and passionate to the point of making Alfred's breath hitch, to the point of making the world's superpower bite his lip in a desperate attempt to retain the groan that would start low in his throat from passing his lips.

And for the past half-dozen months or so, despite the lyrics being in French (a language he curiously did not speak considering Louisiana was one of his states), Alfred would wake up every other morning with the song's words on his tongue, practically forcing their way out of his yawning mouth.

…Alfred wondered if the mysterious singer knew just exactly what the song was about: visiting, discovering, exploring, _wanting_ America… leaving everything behind whether it was friends, family or possessions just to go to the New World dream that was The Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.

Alfred hoped, if not for his emotional sanity, that the man – because this _Phantom of the Opera_ -esque singer of his was most definitely male – did.

* * *

Making his way down the corridor toward his hotel room, the remainders of his ice cream cone still clinging visibly to his chin and mouth, America almost jumped out of his skin when someone suddenly burst through a door not even a foot away from where he was walking.

"I don't think I can do this anymore. It's been years, and for what? He's not –"

" _Mathieu, mon cher enfant_ , do not be hasty. _L'amour est quelque chose qui ne doit pas se faire forcer._ _Sois patient, et tu verras bien que_ –"

"No! I don't think I can keep this up. I just can't," Canada interrupted, a pained grimace marring his fair features.

Francis' previous stern expression softened in sympathy. Raising one of his perfectly manicured hands, he brought the visibly troubled North American into his arms, stroking his former colony's honey hair. With a kiss to the Canadian's temple, he calmly explained, " _J'en suis conscient que c'est difficile._ _Mais, je crois que tes efforts vont finir par porter fruit. Tu dois avoir confiance en toi-même_."

" _Mais papa, c'est juste que j'suis tanné d'attendre. C'est ça l'affaire. J'en peux tout simplement plus_."

"Matt?"

Both Canada and France froze on the spot as they realized that they were in the presence of a third party.

Equally as frozen, the American could only stare, frowning in confusion.

Untangling himself from the Frenchman, Matthew was the first to break the awkward silence, "Al? Uhm, what brings you here?"

The frown on America's face only deepened, though this time in suspicion (and some well-hidden concern). "My room's right up ahead. I was just on my way there," he explained slowly, hesitant. "What are _you_ –"

The Canadian suddenly clapped, voice uncharacteristically loud as he interrupted, "OH, that's right! The G7 is taking place here in Canada this time. Oh man, sorry bro but I must have forgotten for a sec that you were a part of it. Haha! Silly me, right? Okay, well it's been a pleasure bumping into you. Though now I really must be going, kay? Buh-bye. Oh, and by the way you've got something on your chin." And with those last – albeit rushed – parting words, Canada practically bolted.

Staring after his Northern neighbour's retreating figure, he used the back of his hand to wipe his face clean, asking the remaining nation upon the same occasion, "What's up with him? D'you guys have a fight or somethin'?"

France was quiet for a moment, as if thinking over his response, before he finally answered, "Just a mild disagreement. Nothing too dramatic." Then, with a graceful nonchalance only the French nation could pull off, he offered, "Would you like to come in? I have wine…"

Alfred eyed the Frenchman warily, before conceding. "Good wine?"

The European's lips curled into a small smile, his ocean eyes twinkling with hidden mischief (in that Alfred failed to identify it). "But of course. Only the best there is. I am France, after all."

* * *

"I fucking hate that song. Turn. It. Off. Pleeeaaaase," Alfred whined more than enunciated, cheeks flushed and breaths constantly interrupted by hiccups as the fermented grape juice had its wicked way with his system.

France simply cocked an eyebrow while he continued to swirl his wineglass under the light, admiring the liquid's lovely garnet hue. " _Quelle musique_? I hear nothing."

The American huffed, rising clumsily to his feet. "Sorry Francis, but I'ma destroy your radio. Help me find it, wouldja?"

The Mediterranean nation finally took his eyes off his prized wine, leveling his gaze with Alfred's. "I do not have a radio. Nor has this hotel provided my room with one."

"Lies!" America immediately cried out with a hiccup, frantically pacing the area. He then paused in his actions, contemplative, before yelling with renewed vigor. "Then it's a gramophone! It's gotta be that. I could hear it."

Francis blinked, once, twice, ultimately sighing under his breath. " _Non_ , Alfred. There is no gramophone in this room, and that is not a lie." Seeing the American about to object, the Frenchman deadpanned, "Nor is it a conspiracy."

Mouth now shut, the North American sat heavily on the bed, evidently disappointed.

"I swear I could hear it. That _song_. It's been driving me nuts," he mumbled after a while of quiet thinking, having meanwhile sobered up. Blue eyes then looked up from behind square-rimmed glasses, only to dart away sheepishly. "Maybe I'm starting to get a little too paranoid, huh? I told my boss about it, you know. This one time after some important summit or something. He legit stared at me for a whole five minutes, hard and questioning like… well like a typical boss, before finally walking away. Dude probably thinks I'm going bonkers. All I told him is that there's this creep that's been following me around, singing this one song that happens to be about me, over and over again. And that it's in French."

Francis made sure to hum in understanding, assuring the other that he was still listening upon the same occasion.

America suddenly frowned, taking back his words, "Actually, if I were to be perfectly honest with myself, 'creep' would be the wrong term. I mean, God only knows I kinda like the attention… the mystery, the guessing game that comes with it. He's like my own personal 'phantom of the opera'. Though, maybe not since we're not in an opera house. The 'phantom of the conference building', perhaps? Yeah, I like the sound of that. You would know what I'm talking about, since it _is_ a _French_ love story. One of your best, in my opinion."

France fought back a chuckle at the American's comparison, instead asking, "You are aware that _le fantôme_ does not get a happy ending, _oui_?"

The superpower waved off the words. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I've only seen the Broadway show about a hundred times. Though personally, I've always thought Christine should have chosen her 'Angel of Music' over Raoul."

"You forget that the phantom is also nicknamed the 'Angel of Death'. He was a murderer, a so-called 'freak of nature'. He terrorized the workers and performers into silence."

"I know _that_ , too," Alfred winked. "But I still would have preferred Christine with him. The poor guy deserved a break. Besides, he loved her way too much to have ever actually hurt her."

This time, the Frenchman allowed himself a small laugh, shaking his head in amusement. "You have a twisted view of romantic love, _mon ami_."

The younger nation grinned, raising his since-long-ago empty glass. "Cheers to that."

* * *

Later that afternoon, after America had called it a day and gone back to his room, Francis removed the small Bluetooth speaker from its hiding place behind the window curtain.

It was a wonder: the way Alfred failed to recall how advanced technology had become once sufficiently inebriated, how he would sometimes blissfully forget in just what century they were in after drinking enough.

…How a _certain_ song could now be played with just a single tap to the screen of his smartphone.

Oh, and let us not forget how Alfred had failed to notice the way Francis had kept unusually quiet, and asked not a single question while the former spoke of his musically-related problem.

France inwardly smirked as he sipped the last of his wine; a gramophone!

Ah. A wonder indeed.

* * *

"Hey Matt, you speak French, right? Part of the Frank-o-phony or something?" Alfred quietly asked the next morning, almost halfway through the day's meeting; France was currently proposing ways to both reduce trading inequalities and strengthen the labor market whilst the rest of the G7 members – minus the two North Americans – for once remained respectfully attentive.

" _La Francophonie_. And yes, why?" answered Canada in a curious whisper, after having looked around to see if anyone else was paying attention to them.

The American smirked. "Great. Because I need you to make a list. Write down any male nation you know speaks fluent French, or that's part of the Franco-funny.

" _Francophonie_ ", the Northern nation automatically corrected, only to frown inquiringly when a certain detail caught his attention, "Why males specifically?"

"I have my reasons," the superpower shrugged, flashing the other a winning smile. "So, couldja do it?"

Suspicious violet bore into pleading baby blue, the Canadian nation critically eyeing his American counterpart.

Finally, after what seemed like hours to Alfred rather than a mere thirty seconds, Matthew slowly nodded. "I'll do it." The Northerner then abruptly stilled, his lower lip caught between gnawing teeth and his eyes once more watching Alfred with an almost worried sort of uncertainty, until he nodded one more time as if in an attempt to convince himself of something. "For you… I'll do it."

Why did Matthew seem so sad, Alfred wondered? The Canadian's words had somehow sounded so defeated, so resigned. Yet, all he had asked for was a teensy tiny favor! Just some names. Just a small list of people. It could hardly be _that_ much of a big deal, right? Surely, only a fraction of male nations spoke French, right?

Right?

America found himself oddly unsure, and strangely enough… feeling – only maybe – a tad guilty.

* * *

TWO MONTHS LATER…

"Oh c'mon sweetheart, can'tcha sing for the hero? I mean really, I can't fathom your voice being any less beautiful than your face, darlin'," America drawled with practiced charm and one of his sweet, dazzling smiles – all while sneakily snaking an arm around the other nation's waist.

Switzerland stared at the offending arm with a desire akin to bloodlust, his skin florid with burning anger. Without a word, he grabbed the gun hidden in his uniform jacket's inside pocket and fired a single warning shot, effectively causing the blue-eyed North American to 'eep' in surprise before crouching down on the floor.

"Do that again, and I promise you there'll be a bullet in your head. Also, for the record, I don't sing." His point having been made, the Swiss nation allowed himself a barely-there smirk, to then promptly disappear down the hall.

Willing his heart to slow, Alfred rose somewhat shakily to his feet. "Sweet Jesus that was close." With a relieved sigh, he fished a folded piece of paper out of his pants pocket. "Well, one more I could cross off the list. Only…" he left off as he counted the number of unchecked names. "Twenty more to go. Damn."

He then felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, goosebumps leaving trails down his arms. Feeling strangely watched all of a sudden, the superpower spun on himself only to halt almost immediately.

"So, still using that list I gave you, eh?" Matthew inquired from his spot by the wall, a whisper of a chuckle following his words.

It sounded cold, and unusually reproachful to Alfred's ears.

"Mattie, hey! You know, I was wondering where you were. I didn't even see you in the meeting room this morning," exclaimed America with false cheer, secretly wishing he were anywhere else for some strange reason; being around Canada had never felt this uncomfortable before.

Said nation hummed thoughtfully, violet eyes intense and entirely trained on his Southern neighbour, before shrugging lazily. "Well, now you know I'm here. Been here this whole time actually. In fact, I'm always there."

With a grimace, the superpower let an uneasy laugh escape his lips. Why did it seem like there was some sort of deeper, hidden meaning behind Matthew's words? "Ah, I see. Yeah, true that. Okay, uhm… so I'm just gonna head on out now, alright? Maybe get a burger while I'm at it. You know, before the lunch break finishes. Wouldn't want me to come back to the meeting on an empty stomach, right?" Alfred inwardly cringed; he had never acted so plainly _awkward_ in front of Canada either, even during his puberty days – and that had been _ages_ ago.

Before the American could turn to leave, however, the Canadian's next words stopped him:

"If it's of any help, I earlier saw Cameroon eating lunch with South Africa in the downstairs dining hall. Good luck getting him to sing though."

And with that, the Northern nation took his leave, the soft scraping of his well-polished shoes against the glossy tile floor fading down the corridor, heading in the same direction Switzerland had only minutes prior.

America was for once disturbingly speechless, and that in itself was immensely frustrating because Matthew had done nothing wrong beside look at him a little more intently than usual.

Sighing to himself, his eyes glanced over the names on the list for the umpteenth time that day. He secretly, desperately wished to hear that one French song – more importantly, that one voice his ears undeniably craved – echoing down this hallway right this instant. Because that was usually how it went: Alfred would find himself alone and out of nowhere, those stupidly wonderful lyrics and that infuriatingly angelic voice would permeate the air and serenade his senses.

Loathe as he was to admit it, his mysterious singer had not sung to him for a little over two months now. And he missed this phantom of his more than he hated this horribly obvious abandonment.

He eyed the list one more time, before making his way downstairs.

* * *

Upon his return to the meeting room, a swift smack to the head was what greeted him.

"The fuck? Who the he–"

"You are such _un imbécile_ , _Amérique_ ," France interrupted while shaking his head, facial features contorted in a grave, if not angry expression. " _Vraiment_ , I had no idea you could be so stupid."

America frowned. "The hell are you talkin' about? What did I do now?"

Francis rolled his eyes behind closed eyelids, letting a loud puff of air exit through his nose upon the same occasion. "It is what you didn't do that is the problem."

"Uh… 'kay. Think you can elaborate on that?" he asked, feeling more confused than anything else.

" _Non_. I've been sworn to secrecy, and I have already overstepped the boundary as it is. All I can say is that the one you are searching for is not on that list of yours. Seek elsewhere."

"…How did you–"

The American was silenced when a finger pressed itself against his lips. Looking to Francis for _some_ kind of explanation, all he received for his efforts was a slow, solemn head-shake.

And then, as if their conversation had never happened, the French nation was gone.

* * *

Even after the meeting, America was unable to locate the Frenchman in hopes of demanding the answers to his questions (because really, anything was welcome at this point).

However, a word with England confirmed that Francis had indeed left the conference early due to his country's impending election.

Ha. Speaking of this year's French elections… 'Macron' reminded Alfred of those fabulous little sugar hamburgers he was always afraid of obliterating by merely holding them between his thumb and forefinger. Sometimes, he even got Mattie to make them for him, seeing as they were way too hard for him to even think of attempting. Macaroons? No… that was that (totally awesome, by the way) coconutty cookie his people had invented.

Hmm…

Ah yeppers, ' _macarons_ '! That was the name!

To repeat, those things were so horribly delicate. French food in general just seemed so overly-fancy, and aesthetically pleasing, and dainty, and had he mentioned that the portions were ridiculously tiny? At least, it seemed that way in the culinary magazines he would sometimes browse through when he was bored and the cash register lines at the supermarket were too goddamn long. ('Seriously, did people have nothing better to do than go grocery shopping on a Saturday?' said the hypocrite.)

Well, not like he would know from personal experience; his beloved MickeyD's was an international franchise for a reason.

But back to the main topic at hand, Francis had flown back to his country and was not coming back anytime soon.

Great. The latter's little speech had left Alfred confused and even more desperate than before, if it were possible.

Would it have killed France to just tell him who the hell he was supposed to be looking for instead of playing stupid mind games?

Sometimes, a situation readily demanded, 'To hell with secrecy'! This was one of them.

Either way, maybe he could ask Matt to whip out a fresh batch of _macarons_ (one had to pronounce that with a fancy-ass French accent for it to sound authentic), seeing as the conference was, again, taking place in Canada – Calgary, this time.

But the thing is… his brother had been acting off as of late. It was weird, and made America kind of uncomfortable. Like for instance, all throughout the day's meeting, he had caught Matthew just… staring _unwaveringly_ at him from where he had been sitting across the table.

Not that that was necessarily unwelcome per se, but…

He shook his head. Best not get ahead of himself.

This whole situation was unnerving, to say the least. First Canada, and now France.

Great.

Who was next? Australia?

Before he could jinx that properly, however, a flash of honey-golden curls across the sunlit hallway he was in pulled him out of his reverie.

"Yo, Cana–" he interrupted himself, as instinctively as it had been to shout out his brother's name.

Matthew's gait was… dispirited, if not defeated. He moved with hunched shoulders, hands well hidden within the lone pocket of his hoodie and face hanging low as his feet dragged him slowly down the hall, seemingly unfazed by the _scrap-scrap_ of his dress shoes against the floor. That was the first set of red flags.

The second was his hair. _Lord_ , it was as if it had barely survived a zombie apocalypse! It was worse than a bird's nest – in the sense that a nest at least had a _semblance_ of order! To put it straight, Canada's hair was in complete disarray, which was unlike his neighbour's usual well-groomed, perfectly-combed, 'hi, I'm the good child' style.

Knowing his Northern counterpart as much as America liked to think he did, the Canadian's current state was one of two things: one, something had just gone terribly sour in his country, or two, some other country had roughed him up.

Were either of these reasons responsible for Canada's peculiar behaviour?

That was plausible.

His mind made up, it was then that Alfred decided he would investigate further into the matter.

* * *

It was a good thing that he had the following things: a list of all of Matthew's addresses, and a trusty smartphone to give him directions.

Without them, Alfred would have otherwise been forced to give up on his quest, because Matthew was slippery _without_ trying. Never mind when it was intentional.

Still, he worried. Matthew had always been his best bro, his weakness and his strength, the only one capable of making him cry. Him, America the Beautiful, and superpower of the world. The Land of Dreams. The capital-C Chief beacon of freedom and justice for the world.

And Canada, sweet 'innocent' Matthew, had perfected the art of getting his waterworks running. Which was understandable, were one to think about it: Matthew knew just what buttons to push. He knew just what to say to make it hurt, and to make matters worse, Matthew was one of the few people whose opinions mattered to Alfred. If not, the only person whose opinions mattered.

Because when it all came down to it, Matthew was like a gem in a sea of sands. He was America's main trading partner, and probably most important ally. The sole other nation he trusted to have his back when shit hit the fan. If Alfred were a school's jock, Matthew would be the quiet kid at the back of the classroom that no one talked about nor talked to, but ought to be batshit terrified of. Why? Because when things went horribly, terribly, South-in-a-hand-basket kind of _wrong_ , America could (usually) always count on the Cold Front – the Final Frontier – to travel down from the North to restore what was exhausted. And of course, Alfred made an effort to help out when it was Matthew that needed saving, regardless of whether Matthew wanted him to or not (which was most often the former, 'cause Mattie was so damn stubborn).

Needless to say, a relationship of that kind was _rare_ amongst nations. Alfred knew, in his heart of hearts, that he ought to feel grateful for being blessed with such a wonderful neighbour.

But as it stood… he was not. At least, not _entirely_.

Admittedly, he had always been the type to never be satisfied with what he already had. He always wanted more, even when there was nothing left to be given. Or in this case, when it was unwilling to be given.

It was the latter in regard to Matthew.

* * *

Canada's door was unlocked when Alfred happened upon it.

That was the third set of red flags. Or not, considering this _was_ Canada. Tch, low crime rates, as his brother liked to boast about.

Regardless, America was both quiet and careful as he inched past the threshold, not wanting to startle Matt out of whatever funk he was in. He still felt himself to be a creeper, though, but soon reasoned that his bro would never think of him as such, and that besides, he was too good-looking to be a creep.

So when he finally reached the kitchen, where Matthew stood rummaging through the fridge for – what Alfred himself would be looking for were he his brother – a cold one, he coughed.

Which, in all honesty, was a tactless move on the American's part by the way Matthew banged his head on the top shelf in surprise.

" _Ostie d'ciboire_ , who the fuck–" the Northern-most nation blanched when his eyes caught Alfred's, the latter just standing there like he owned the damn place. "The hell do _you_ want?"

No one could blame America for the shiver that slithered down his spine, unprepared for such _ice_ in the other's tone. "Just… checking to see if you're okay, bro."

Matthew yanked a single Labatt out of his fridge (making a point in not offering the other a beer of his own), before nearly slamming its door shut, "Since when do _you_ care about my wellbeing?" He accentuated the question with a vicious uplift of his teeth against the metal lid, successfully uncapping the bottle.

The hell? Wasn't that dangerous? That was what bottle-openers were for, no?

Alfred shook his head from his thoughts, suddenly regretting his decision to follow his brother home when clearly an angry Canadian was afoot. "Easy there, Matt. I was just worried after I saw the way you slouched on over here after the meeting. I thought that maybe you needed som–"

« _Tous les sifflets de trains, toutes les sirènes de bateaux,  
M'ont chanté cent fois la chanson de l'Eldorado,  
De l'Améri_– »

" _Oui, bonjour_?" Matthew was quick to answer, phone already at his ear. He payed no heed to the stunned American in front of him. " _Ouais, comme tu as pu l'deviner par toi-même, il s'est faufilé jusqu'à chez moi pour une raison dont j'ignore encore. T'sais, ta manière de tout savoir en ce qui concerne ma vie amoureuse ne cessera jamais de m'surprendre, je crois_." A pause. " _Ouain, c'est ça Francis, laisse-moi tout seul comme d'habitude…._ _Oui, oui, à plus tard._ Bye _, là._ "

It was only when Matthew pressed 'end call' that Alfred emerged from his stupor. Even then, words eluded him as violet eyes so similar yet so unlike his own turned to settle on him, studying him.

"You were saying?"

America gulped. "Your ringtone…"

"What about it?"

Here, Alfred mentally floundered. He broke eye contact and stared at his feet, very unlike him, yes, but he was marching through complete uncharted waters at this point. This whole situation was just downright bizarre and so unexpected that… "It was you. All this time."

Not that Alfred could see it, but on Matthew's part, the mask of aloofness the Canadian had painted on until then replaced itself with a pained smile. A sad quirk of lips.

The silence that ensued, for what it was worth, was much more informative than any explanation Matthew could have given. It spoke volumes.

"I don't get it. How could it have taken me so long to find out. Why didn't you just tell me?"

A shrug of shoulders was all that answered him.

Alfred was feeling helpless, confused by the reality that he had missed something so obvious. "…But, b-but every time I turned around there was no one there! And the singing would stop once I tried to actively listen for it, too! I swear it!"

At this point, Matthew's fists were curled, trembling with frustration. Ah, the anger had returned. Tenfold, it seemed. "That's because you never take the time to look at what's literally _right_ in front of you, ya blind Yank!"

Here, Alfred had the decency to look somewhat abashed, "Well, in my defence, I would have heard you had you sung. Why would you stop singing? All you had to do was make yourself heard, and it wouldn't have taken me this long."

Matthew took in a shaky breath. Oh God, this was already so difficult for him to admit to himself, but to Alfred…

"I'd freeze," the Canadian began in a whisper, eyes downcast in shame. "I'd be right in the swing of things, singing my heart out to you, trying to reach out to you, but then you'd turn around and look straight at me, with those big blue eyes of yours, and then suddenly no sound would wanna come out. Every single time. I would try, and struggle to even make _some_ type of noise. A shout, a whisper, anything in between, anything beyond. By the time the initial shock would wear off, I would just see the disappointment written on your face, in your eyes, before you would turn back around. By then, I would be too angry at myself to try again, and would walk away, all the while telling myself 'next meeting'. It was always 'next meeting'. But meeting after meeting after meeting, nothing would change. And I just hated myself for it. So much. And then you asked me to make you that _list_ ," he spat the word with venom, "and from there I just sorta snapped. Because I'm always right there, right within reach, and yet you still had no clue." He paused, calming himself before he lashed out any further. He then resumed, voice steady, "I made the decision to stop singing to you, even though it really hurt me to do so. I gave up. I mean if you didn't see me then, why would that change if ever you did figure out it was me, y'know? I'm not even all that important to you –" He was quick to interrupt when Alfred opened his mouth to object, "as Matthew. And even sometimes as Canada too, Al. Face it. Smell the roses!"

If anything, the American only looked further scandalized.

Both nations stood still after that, and were equally quiet.

"So, what now?" was asked with a tiny voice, so unlike what would normally be heard leaving America's lips.

Matthew shrugged, his gaze refusing to meet the American's, "I suppose I'll get started on getting over you. One could argue that the past couple of months have already acted as a prelude of sorts."

Baby blues widened with unconcealed horror as Alfred blurted, "You can't!"

"Oh?" With a raised eyebrow, Canada waited patiently for the other to finish, or at the very least justify himself for his sudden outburst. When merely silence greeted him, Matthew inquired further, "And why not?"

It was now Alfred's turn to refuse eye contact, looking at anything aside from Matthew's face.

It was understandable that when merely silence greeted him a second time around, the Canadian made to turn away. "I thought as much."

Like lightening, he was then viciously pulled back as warm, desperate lips crashed against his own.

As he was kissed – rather passionately, at that – he felt hands on him, one at his shoulder, the other cupping his mandible. They clung to him with such fervor, Matthew felt his heart stutter.

It only registered that Alfred's lips had left his own when words were sighed directly into his ear, "Mattie." The hand that had been at his shoulder soon after joined the other at his jaw. "I'm glad that it's you."

Slowly, tentatively, the Canadian covered the foreign hands with his own. "Excuse me?"

Alfred reluctantly pulled back. His eyes sparkled, Matthew thought, as the American repeated, smiling all the while, "You heard me. I'm glad it's you."

"Care to repeat that." Fingers intertwined with each other, bronze a stark contrast to their porcelain counterparts. A beautiful mélange.

"I'm glad it's you, Matt."

It seemed the expression 'third time's the charm' applied here, as Matthew finally froze, fingers that had previously been squeezing and caressing America's own now pushing the intruders away. "Why?"

"Why not?" Confounded by the other's sudden change in behavior, Alfred made to approach when a hand pushed at his chest, stopping him in his tracks. "Mattie, wha–"

"I may be in love with you, but I am not desperate. I will not give myself to you just because I'm the only one that'll have you."

"Whoa, whoa! Mattie, you're getting way ahead of yourself here," America was quick to placate. "I would never say any of what's just been said if I didn't mean it", he swore. "I mean, I would have made it clear I wasn't interested if that was the case. Thing is, that's _not_ the case. God only knows I've always been a little obsessed with you, Matt. Even if it doesn't always seem like it."

Alfred knew he had Matthew's undivided attention at this point, those bewitching amethysts studying him so intensely it was almost maddening. All Alfred could do to distill the heaviness clinging to the air was shuffle his feet, because this was most definitely awkward. _So_ not up to par with his heroic persona, yet…

To hell with it.

"Truth is," he began softly, an attempt to appear collected lest Matthew know how nervous he felt himself to be, actually was, "I've always been a little enamoured. How can I not? Look at you. Look at your land, your people. How could anyone not want that? I know you're far from perfect, we all are, but sometimes I find myself romanticizing you, and I can't help it. I know I'm not the most popular guy right now, especially with how my boss has been going around offending nearly every country on this planet – I mean friggin' _Australia_? _Really_? – but that doesn't stop me from hoping sometimes, like when you randomly invite me over for movie nights or the worried calls I get from you after a bad day. To be honest, I just never thought you were open to this sort of thing, let alone with me. For the most part, you get along swimmingly with everyone, and I thought you were content with that, I guess. So, no, it never occurred to me all these years that it could be you. Not that I wanted to get my hopes up to begin with, but you know what I mean." He waved his hands around, trying to get his point across, soon sighing when it was clear just by the other's frown that Matthew needed more clarification. "I'm not saying you're too good for me or anything, but… well, you sorta are, in my opinion," was coupled with a nervous chuckle. "As great as I am and all, I see you as slightly outta my league. But again, that's just me."

That got a small smile out of the Arctic nation. America took it as his cue to continue.

"And God only knows that your singing is legit the single thing I look forward to in meetings. Well, _that_ and seeing you and Kiku and Francis and everyone else, I guess. But the point I'm trying to make here is that for the longest time, I've made it my goal to find out who the one singing to me was, and I'm ultimately, high-key, positively, honestly delighted that it's you, and not some random Frenchie nation I barely know the existence of. I just wish I could have known sooner."

Matthew was chuckling, shoulders shaking subtly with mirth. "But we talk all the time. How did you _not_ establish it was me?"

"Oh, come _on_!" the superpower huffed. "You can't actually blame me for not knowing! Your voice sounds different in French!"

The chuckling died down, an eyeroll taking its place, before Matthew pulled the American close. "Alright, well it doesn't change the fact that I still want you," he rasped, "and don't bother saying 'no', because I _will_ have you."

"Tch. You've only been repeating just that for _years_ now."

" _Oui, mais en français_ ," the Canadian muttered as he drew the other toward his room.

America simply grinned.

(He would totally need to get started on learning French.)

(Well…once Matthew was done with him.)

* * *

Story with Ending #1

Translations:

" _mon cher enfant_ " – French for "my dear child"

" _L'amour est quelque chose qui ne doit pas se faire forcer._ _Sois patient, et tu verras bien que…_ " – French for "Love is something that must not be forced. Be patient, and you will see that…"

" _J'en suis conscient que c'est difficile. Mais, je crois que tes efforts vont finir par porter fruit. Tu dois avoir confiance en toi-même._ " – French for "I'm aware that it's difficult. But, I believe that your efforts will eventually bear fruit. You have to have some confidence in yourself."

" _Mais papa, c'est juste que j'suis tanné d'attendre. C'est ça l'affaire. J'en peux tout simplement plus_." – Quebec French for "But dad, it's just that I'm tired of waiting. That's the thing. I simply can't take this anymore."

" _Quelle musique?_ " – French for "What music?"

" _le fantôme_ " – French for "the phantom". The word _'fantôme'_ also means 'ghost' in French.

" _mon ami_ " – French for "my friend"

" _un imbécile_ , _Amérique_ " – French for "an imbecile/idiot, America"

" _vraiment_ " – French for "really"

" _Oui, bonjour_?" – French for "yes, hello?" Most people here in Quebec (I can't speak for other French-speaking places) answer their phone this way. Or… at least, I do.

" _Ouais, comme tu as pu l'deviner par toi-même, il s'est faufilé jusqu'à chez moi pour une raison dont j'ignore encore. T'sais, ta manière de tout savoir en ce qui concerne ma vie amoureuse ne cessera jamais de m'surprendre, je crois_." – Quebec French for " Yeah, as you may have guessed, he worked his way to my house for a reason I am still unaware of. Y'know, your way of knowing everything in regard to my love life will never cease to surprise me, I believe."

" _Ouain, c'est ça Francis, laisse-moi tout seul comme d'habitude…. Oui, oui, à plus tard._ Bye _, là._ " – Quebec French for "Uh huh, that's right Francis, leave me all alone as usual…. Yeah, yeah, see ya later. Bye, now."

" _Oui, mais en français_ " – French for "yes, but in French"

 **A/N:** That chick listening to Joe Dassin during her shift at the local ice cream shop, at the beginning of the story? Yes, that was me lolol. Guilty as charged. Either way, I sincerely hoped you enjoyed this. I've got two more endings to this story on the way. 'Cause I couldn't decide on just one, it seems, so I'll post them all! Why not?

 _À +,_

~SHnM


	2. Second Ending

Disclaimer: Still not mine

Enjoy!

 **Je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai (I Want to Have Him, and I Will Have Him)**

ENDING #2

[…]

It was a good thing that he had the following things: a list of all of Matthew's addresses, and a trusty smartphone to give him directions.

Without them, Alfred would have otherwise been forced to give up on his quest, because Matthew was slippery _without_ trying. Never mind when it was intentional.

Still, he worried. Matthew had always been his best bro, his weakness and his strength, the only one capable of making him cry. Him, America the Beautiful, and superpower of the world. The Land of Dreams. The capital-C Chief beacon of freedom and justice for the world.

And Canada, sweet 'innocent' Matthew, had perfected the art of getting his waterworks running. Which was understandable, were one to think about it: Matthew knew just what buttons to push. He knew just what to say to make it hurt, and to make matters worse, Matthew was one of the few people whose opinions mattered to Alfred. If not, the only person whose opinions mattered.

Because when it all came down to it, Matthew was like a gem in a sea of sands. He was America's main trading partner, and probably most important ally. The sole other nation he trusted to have his back when shit hit the fan. If Alfred were a school's jock, Matthew would be the quiet kid at the back of the classroom that no one talked about nor talked to, but ought to be batshit terrified of. Why? Because when things went horribly, terribly, South-in-a-hand-basket kind of _wrong_ , America could (usually) always count on the Cold Front – the Final Frontier – to travel down from the North to restore what was exhausted. And of course, Alfred made an effort to help out when it was Matthew that needed saving, regardless of whether Matthew wanted him to or not (which was most often the former, 'cause Mattie was so damn stubborn).

Needless to say, a relationship of that kind was _rare_ amongst nations. Alfred knew, in his heart of hearts, that he ought to feel grateful for being blessed with such a wonderful neighbour.

But as it stood… he was not. At least, not _entirely_.

Admittedly, he had always been the type to never be satisfied with what he already had. He always wanted more, even when there was nothing left to be given. Or, when it was unwilling to be given.

It was the latter case in regard to Matthew.

* * *

Canada's door was unlocked when Alfred happened upon it.

That was the third set of red flags. Or not, considering this _was_ Canada. Tch, low crime rates, as his brother liked to boast about.

Regardless, America was both quiet and careful as he inched toward the threshold, not wanting to startle Matt out of whatever funk he was in.

It washed over him before he could take a full step through the door: the siren's song he had been missing for a little over two months now, the voice his ears had not recognized they needed until it was gone.

It came as a quiet sort of realization, the pieces of this never-ending puzzle falling perfectly into place.

The distance that had steadily grown between him and his twin, France's frustration, the guilt and emptiness he had been feeling as of late, it all dawned on him once he made his way inside.

Matthew's back was turned to him, thankfully. Too busy rinsing dishes to notice he was no longer alone.

The room was clean, smelling of warm maple cookies and everything else that so exquisitely represented his Canadian counterpart. Just like Alfred remembered it. How reassuring. He could not help the small smile that blossomed on his face.

Rarely did America keep mum; this was one of those moments that readily demanded it.

So, shoulder carefully resting against the door frame to Canada's kitchen, Alfred enjoyed his brother's impromptu singing session quietly.

(He wondered if Matthew was thinking of him, as he let those charming lyrics flow past his lips. He, himself, pretended Matthew was singing solely to him.)

It was only once the song was over, the last note slowly dying off, somewhat clinging to the air, that Matthew let on he had known of the presence behind him.

He kept his back to the superpower, slowly wiping a spoon.

"Tell me something, Al. Did you follow me here to talk, or just to creep on me while I had my back turned?"

Alfred's soul positively ached, knowing he could have had this in his life for far longer had he just realized sooner.

If only he _had_.

"Mattie… oh God, I'm so sorry," he cautiously stepped toward the Northerner, letting the reality of just how much this had been bothering him show on his face, in his eyes. "I'm so, so sorry."

When he was sufficiently close, Canada admitted quietly, "I'm not mad, you know."

"You're not?" The American was frowning suspiciously, stance uneasy. "Seriously?"

A sigh. "I'm not." Dishes now drying on the rack beside the sink, Matthew finally turned to face the other. He took in the apology shinning through those blue eyes he loved so much, the honesty. "I'm not. I wish I was, but I'm not. You're just so… frustrating, yet so artfully suave that I could never stay angry at you. Why can't you let me be angry?" He crossed his arms, scoffing, "And why are you even here, anyways? Shouldn't you be harassing Luxembourg or whoever? Asking him to sing for you with that 'sweet, honey-butter-cream-pie voice of his' or something?"

All Alfred could do was take a risk by bringing the other in for a hug, murmuring, "I'm here now, aren't I? It took me a while, but I'm here." He buried his face in the crook of Matthew's neck, nose rubbing against the skin there, "I missed you, Matt."

Things were going to be good, from now on.

* * *

Hours later, sitting amongst an outrageous pile of paperwork in his Paris office, one Francis Bonnefoy was smiling at a text he had just received:

« _J'ai enfin réussi à le faire mien._ _Enfin. :)_

 _Bises,_

 _–_ _M.W._ »

* * *

Ending #2

Translation:

'I finally got him to be mine. Finally.

Love,

– M.W.'

A/N: This is how I meant to originally end the story. Just a sort of quiet realization on Alfred's part, leading to the North Americans making up. Sweet comfort in as little words as possible. But I liked the way I wrote my two other endings as well, so I decided to keep all three. Hope you enjoyed.

Sending you all sweet maple-hugs from Canada,

~SHnM


	3. Third Ending

Disclaimer: Still not mine

A/N: Sorry this came out so late. On the bright side, it's Canada Day! Wooh, 151 years since Confederation and looking good! So to all my fellow Canadians, I wish you a happy Canada Day! And to non-Canadians, have yourselves a piece of cake or something anyways, m'kay? Or perhaps something maple-y ;)

Enjoy!

 **Je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai (I Want to Have Him, and I Will Have Him)**

ENDING #3

[...]

Matthew's gait was… dispirited, if not defeated. He moved with hunched shoulders, hands well hidden within the lone pocket of his hoodie and face hanging low as his feet dragged him slowly down the hall, seemingly unfazed by the _scrap-scrap_ of his dress shoes against the floor. That was the first set of red flags.

The second was his hair. _Lord_ , it was as if it had barely survived a zombie apocalypse! It was worse than a bird's nest – in the sense that a nest at least had a _semblance_ of order! To put it straight, Canada's hair was in complete disarray, which was well unlike his neighbour's usual well-groomed, perfectly-combed, 'hi, I'm the good child' style.

Knowing his Northern counterpart as much as America liked to think he did, the Canadian's current state was one of two things: one, something had just gone terribly sour in his country, or two, some other country had roughed him up.

Were either of these reasons responsible for Canada's peculiar behaviour?

That was plausible.

He would have to maintain a watchful eye on Matt from now on, it seemed.

'Something was horribly amiss in the state of Canada', one of England's greatest writers once wrote.

And you could betch'ur bottom dollar America would get to the bottom of it.

* * *

He waited a day after the conference was over to make his move.

He called France, that is.

"Okay but I seriously have no clue why he's acting like this. Something's wrong though, Francis. I just know it. But, look, as much as I hate to admit it, I need help."

On the other side of the line, flicking the ash at the tip of his Gauloises into a conveniently placed tray, the nation of France sighed, "Alfred, you do understand the concept of time zones, yes? It is 3 o'clock too early here in _Toulouse_ for you to be calling so insistently, especially to spout such nonsense."

The American reeled, "Nonsense? Look buddy, you think that just because you colonized him at one point and that he's part of the… what's it… Fran-cough-oney –"

" _Francophonie!_ "

"– whatever, that everything's going just peachy, but I know my best bro more than anyone, and it's not fine. So. Are you sure he didn't tell you anything? I mean that talk you two were having back in Montreal seemed like more than a 'mild disagreement', dude."

A full-blown smile spread across the European's lips, though he was careful to keep his tone of voice even, "My hands are tied, _mon ami_. My election is this week and my country is rather… well, it is as your newscasters have been saying. Therefore, I am afraid I cannot aid you. Though, if I can offer a few wise words of advice? Talk to him. Go see him, and ask what is wrong directly. I have never known you to be hesitant in speaking your mind before, so why the sudden change? Trust me when I say you are the best man for the job. _Je te fais entièrement confiance. Sur ce, bonne chance!_ Now, I really must be getting back to my beauty sleep. No more early morning calls, _tu entends_? The _très magnifique_ France signing off."

America grimaced when the familiar sound of the dial tone greeted his ears.

Gosh darn it, France had not helped a single bit and he was worried.

Yeah, you read right; he, America the indomitable and fearless global powerhouse, was worried. There. He admitted it.

Canada's behavior as of late bothered him. So much so that before calling France, he had called _England_ , of all people. Not that the latter had proved to be any more informative (read: he had picked up, had yelled a few expletives _and really Alfred do you not realize the bloody time_ , and had then promptly hung up before the American could get a word in edgewise). Damn useless Limey.

Either or, if _that_ didn't show he was desperate, then he didn't know what did.

While sliding Texas higher up onto the bridge of his nose, America supposed Francis had made some valid points.

Since when was he shy? Since when had he become the type to avoid confrontation? He usually dove right into it! Ran headlong, even! It was his brother's job to be the world's snooty little peace-keeper, if anything.

So why _had_ he kept quiet?

That question alone made him pause, forced him to take a step back and critically analyze it all.

Canada's opinion of him mattered, Alfred conceded. More than anyone else's, when he thought about it. And the mere notion that his precious Mattie might be mad at him… sort of scared him, didn't it? It unsettled him. Deeply.

And then on the other hand, Alfred still had the unresolved issue pertaining to his mysterious, serenading shadow (who had not sung to him for the past while)….

The choice was simple, really.

When it all came down to it, Matthew's wellbeing was of utmost importance.

As much as he remained curious about his secret admirer and wanted to uncover their identity, there was no denying that Matthew – his True North, and _oldest, bestest friend_ – came first. Always. Because he and Canada… they were a match made in heaven, as far as Alfred was concerned. So why chase after some faceless phantom when he _had_ Canada, loving and caring and always there for him if Alfred needed it.

Again, it was a no-brainer, really.

Within minutes, he had a flight back to Calgary already booked.

* * *

This decision was what brought him to where he stood now. That is, in his Northern neighbour's bedroom, stroking a sleeping Matthew's cheek.

It came in handy, sharing the world's longest undefended border alongside Canada. No one questioned a thing, and as such, the trip over had been a breeze.

What more, the two North Americans held such trust for one another that they both possessed the keys to each other's houses.

Indeed, convenient.

Very, very convenient. Especially at a time like this.

Lost in thought as he was, Alfred's brain nearly short-circuited when Matthew stirred, sleepily sighing the words, " _Je veux… t'avoir, mon Amérique._ "

What the…

Oh.

 _Oh._

Damn, he had really messed up this time, huh? Had really, _really_ messed up. It all made sense now. All the puzzle pieces were falling together and, in retrospect, presented quite the obvious picture.

God, he had been so blind. So caught up in his little fantasy world he had lost track of reality, had lost track of what was literally right in front of him this entire time.

But none of that mattered at the moment, however. Alfred felt only one thing: happiness. Sweet, unadulterated joy.

It had been Canada, _his Mattie_ , all along…

He wanted to kick himself for being so oblivious but settled on the prospect that they could more than make up for lost chances, more than make up for lost opportunities. If Matthew gave him a chance, that is.

Because it was now nearing the third month since the last time Alfred had been sung to. What if Matthew had moved on since then? What if he had grown tired of waiting for Alfred to get his head out of his ass long enough to realize the Canadian's feelings? What if he had already set his sights on someone else?

After all, what someone said in their sleep did not necessarily reflect what they _truly_ felt, right?

The thought hurt Alfred more than he cared to admit.

"Al?"

America froze, inwardly panicking, though ultimately resolving himself to meet Matthew's eyes. As much as he wanted it to simply be his imagination, the room was too quiet for Alfred to mistake Canada's voice as mere mind-trickery. "Mattie! Hey!" Hopefully, the smile he had plastered on his face masked his inner turmoil; Alfred knew his Canadian counterpart to sleep like a log in times of peace, and as such had not expected him to wake up any time soon. Especially not right at that instant.

Matthew's eyes, although still sleep-bleary, were creased inquiringly. "Why're you here, Alfred? I thought you were already back in DC."

"I was. But I came back."

"Why? D'you forget something? You could've just told me so. I would've mailed it back, y'know."

"No, that's… that's not it, Matt." The American bit his lip, awaiting what was inevitably coming with utmost dread.

Matthew sat up slowly, violet eyes now focused. He payed no mind to the bedsheets pooling at his waist as he slowly asked, "Then why –?"

"I came back for _you_ ," Alfred could not help but blurt.

They both grew quiet, one staring blankly ahead as the other fought the sudden desire to slap a palm over his treacherous mouth.

Finally, once the initial shock wore off and awkwardness took its place, Canada asked softly, "Me? What for?"

' _It's now or never_ ,' Alfred inwardly pep talked. "I came here to apologize. That list I asked you to write… I realize it was a stupid move on my part. I hurt you, Matt, and I find that to be unacceptable. So if I could ask for something else? I'd like to ask for your forgiveness, and uhm… a date. I'd also like to ask you out on a date. Well, if you're interested, that is. I understand if I missed my chance, but I still wanted you to know that I would love to be with you… if you'll still have me." When the Canadian made a move to back up and perhaps flee, Alfred was quick to latch on to his hands. And so, Matthew's warm palms in his own sweaty, shaking ones, he resumed, "That song… is that what you really feel? You want – or at the very least, want _ed_ – me to be yours?"

For a few tense moments, all was still, until:

"…How about you convince me I'm not dreaming first, then we'll talk."

Not having to be told twice, Alfred nearly moaned when their lips met in a soul-scorching kiss. He could identify longing-turned-unbridled-joy in the way Matthew moved against him, hockey-strong hands tugging at Alfred's shirt with the need to confirm that, yes, this was indeed real rather than a figment of his own imagination.

Alfred, on his part, was relieved the voice that haunted his dreams now had a face. And it was a face he would really not mind waking up to either. What a nice bonus.

"Francis told me about your chat back in Montreal, and how you referred to me as your own personal phantom of the opera." Canada whispered against the American's lips.

Said American had the decency to blush, "Damn it, France! He tricked me into getting me to talk. How did he even know I'd end up in his room?"

A chuckle. "Oh, that was purely a stroke of luck. Though, trust Francis to always be prepared."

Alfred, for once, opted to make no further comment in favor of kissing Matthew senseless for the second time that evening.

This was only the beginning, the start of a love that was meant to be so long as his history with Canada was concerned. And maybe, just maybe, he would get started on a song he could one day serenade Matthew with.

* * *

Ending #3

Translation:

" _mon ami_ " – French for "my friend"

" _Je te fais entièrement confiance._ " – French for "I have complete faith in you."

" _Sur ce, bonne chance!_ " – French for "On that note, good luck!"

" _tu entends_?" – French for "you hear?"

" _très magnifique_ " – French for "very magnificent"

The famous phrase Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet goes like this: 'Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.' America needs to get his quotes straight ;) And even so, Canada only became a country, like, 250 years after Shakespeare was around haha. I try and put comedic relief where I can, gimme a break!

A/N: Again, Happy Canada Day!

Sending you all maple-sweet, patriotic kisses from Canada,

~SHnM


End file.
